


Companions React to Seeing the Sole Survivor's Battlescars

by tea_petty



Series: Collection of Companions' Reactions [6]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Companions, Companions React, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 11:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16891782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_petty/pseuds/tea_petty
Summary: The companions reopen some (not so old) wounds for the Sole Survivor.





	Companions React to Seeing the Sole Survivor's Battlescars

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr; tea-petty

**Cait** : The first time she had seen them, had been when the two of you had gotten back from one of your crazy adventures.  Caked in dirt and blood, you had gone to change – trailing after you, she had been making some joke about letting her help you, winking suggestively. You had rolled your eyes, used to her cheeky antics by now.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” you had muttered, sore and tired, as you turned around.

She had stood, leaning haughtily against the door frame, watching as you gingerly moved to take your shirt off, sliding your arms through the arm holes, stiff and crusted over in dirt.  Shoving upwards, you had started the process of sliding your head through the hole, only for it to get stuck, snuggly fitted around your shoulders, head and arms trapped inside, the fabric less elastic in its current condition.  

“If you’re still standing there, come make yourself useful.”  You had called out, your muscles stinging with fatigue.

Wordlessly, Cait had stepped over to gently help untangle you from the stiff garment, her eyes trailing over the puckered, pink lines that marred the smooth skin of your back.  She watched as you shrugged the rest off, frustratedly letting them pile on the ground.  You were surprised at the glimmer of sadness in her eyes, as they trailed over your skin.

“Cait?”

Her gaze flicked back up to you.

You felt no shame; you had seen Cait’s own collection of scars yourself, but this was the first time she had seen yours.

“What?” you asked, trying to make light of the suddenly serious mood that had set in.  “You keep staring at me, you have a crush on me or something?”

Smiling slightly, she stepped up to you, pursing her lips, “Well ye know what they say, aye? Us ladies love battle scars.”

**Curie** : Curie had always marveled at your complexion – still maintaining its pre-war glow despite how the Commonwealth had done its damnedest to snuff it out. She had always wondered at your lack of scars, and you had always shrugged it off, not wanting to mar her view of you.  That’s why she had been so surprised to find out that you did have a couple of scars from your time in the Commonwealth – just not in obvious places.  She had first noticed them after you had gone in for a checkup; you had been in a radiation heavy area and wanted to go in for an exam.  She spotted the dark lines that ringed your ankles, right as you started pulling on your boots.

“Ah,  _mademoiselle_  – what are zhose?”

You followed her gaze, and the corner of your mouth lifted slightly.

“Oh those – a little reminder of my first encounter with raiders in the Commonwealth,” you made a face, “who knew being bound could scar?”

Curie nodded seriously, “Eets because of zhe circulation they cut off, if too tight.  Zhe area gets starved of oxygen, which, paired with zhe bruising, can lead to scarring.”

Right – Curie probably did.

“Zhey bound you?  Usually I heard zhey are quite violent – not zhe type to keep anyone waiting, what did zhey do?”

You didn’t answer.

Curie immediately regretted asking, “Ah – anyways, you appear to be fine, but if you notice anysing out of place, please come back at once!”

You kept your gaze fixated on the boot you had crammed haphazardly back onto your foot, “Will do, Curie.”

Your voice had sounded strange, but you were out the door before Curie could inquire further.

**Dogmeat** : Lapped at the scars enthusiastically.  You were here!! He loved you!! Now you had cool splotches of color just like he did!!

**Danse** : He had noticed them one evening as you sat cuddled up against him in bed. You had been just about to drift off to dreamland, and he had been playing with your fingers, splaying them, marveling at their litheness, lifting them up to kiss the tips – when he saw them. The splotchy pink patches on your palms, somehow smoother than regular skin, and a little shiny.  

“What happened here?” he had murmured.

“Hm?”

You peeked one eye open.

“Oh those – courtesy of Kellog.”

“The man who took your son?”

“Mm, that’s right – before I tracked him down and killed him myself, a few of his goons had tried to…scare me off…in some creative ways.”

His fingers glided lightly over the ravaged skin.

“They burned you?”

“On a stove.”

You recalled the stench of your burning flesh, the white hot pain that seemed to grow worse in the minutes following the actual burning.

Danse was quiet, and the solemn silence made you uncomfortable.

“I think I’m a little undercooked,” you mused, trying to lighten the mood.  You shut yours eyes again.

You felt something soft brush against the damaged flesh. You peeked.  His lips?  You watched as he skimmed his nose across it, your cheeks heating.

He touched you reverently that night, more so than usual, as if he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t careful.  You worried he had seen your scars and thought you weak – but really, he had admired you, respected the resilience the marks attested too.  In each brush against skin, a promise to be by your side the next time someone decided to test you like that.

**Deacon** : The first time Deacon had seen your scars had also been the first time you had made love.  It had started out normal; heated, full of wanting, your lips melded together, your hands pushing and pulling, your bodies separating before crashing together again in a continuous ebb and wane of pleasure.  It was during the undressing portion when things had changed; you had just started working at the buttons on his white dress shirt, as his fingers slipped beneath your own shirt, gently lifting the fabric, over your ribcage, up to your collarbone, over your head, gone.  You had been so absorbed in the moment, your eyes shut in leisure, letting his fingers marvel at the softness of your skin, and his eyes at the image of you in such an honest context; that you had forgotten about the newly earned stripes that marred the flesh immediately below your collarbone.

You hadn’t realized anything had changed until you felt his movements slow, his fingers tracing, instead of trying to cover as much surface area as possible.  You had peaked your eyes open, curious, his eyes; seldom without the safety of his sunglasses – a near transparent blue – seemed to burn through you.  Your arms had reached up to cover yourself, as his arms came up to envelop you.  You nuzzled into his shoulder; “It happened one of the first few days after I left the vault,”

His fingers stroked comfortingly up and down the length of your spine.

“It had been three men; but I never found out anything more – they were gone by the time I came to.”

His arms tightened around you, and you flinched.

“That’s all I’m willing to say about it.”

“Alright,” his voice had been soft.

The night’s festivities had been paused for the time being; he instead drew you close, bringing the comforter of the bed up around your shoulders, more or less swaddling you, as he lavished you with pillow talk, and his usual antics – eager to see you smile after making you revisit old wounds.  

**Hancock** : You winced at your reflection; one hand covering your right eye. Normal, everything was fine. Pretty even, albeit tired.  You removed your hand, a trio of angry red marks tainting your complexion, the tissue angry and red.  Your other eye reddened, and you felt yourself sniffle.

_Stupid_ , the voice in your head hissed,  _you have bigger fish to fry.  Grow up._

In the next moment, your reflection had company.

“Sunshine?”

Hancock’s voice was unusually soft, which only made you want to cry more.  Were you really so pitiful now?

You couldn’t stop the hot tears that had started to fall, the marks on your face stinging.

“Hey, c’mon now, talk to me, what’s wrong?” His arms came to embrace you, pulling you to his chest.

“I’ll never look the same, will I?” you whimpered.

He pulled back to study you, reaching up to wipe away a few frozen tears.  You flinched at his gaze.

“You’re right, you’ll never look the same…”

You balked.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re not still beautiful.” He murmured, planting a kiss on your forehead.  

His hand reached up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking gently.

“This changes nothing.  Not a thing, okay?”

Your eyes shut, the tears not letting up in the slightest.  

“Okay.”

He was quiet for a few moments as the two of you sat there, huddled in the small bathroom, his fingers stroking your hair, you blearily watching your reflection.  The corner of his own ruined mouth lifted slightly.

“We could get you a cool eyepatch.”

You gave him a weird look, trying not to laugh, but failing.

“An  _eyepatch_?”

‘What?” he feigned innocence, “You don’t dig the sexy pirate look?”

You laughed again, the swollen tissue on your face stinging as the corner of your eyes crinkled.

**MacCready** : When you woke up, you were in a bright room with no memory of how you’d gotten there.  Your vision seemed to swim, and your ears rang; intensifying the pounding headache that rattled your skull.  White, sterile, clinical.  A consistent beeping punctuated the silence that seemed fitting of such painfully blanched walls.  Your neck was stiff – you could tell even before your attempt to look to your right; the resistance that pushed back so hard at such a small movement.  MacCready was in a chair a few feet away from where you lay, asleep, limbs piled in a way that made you wonder at how he had managed to find sleep at all.  His face consolidated this; his eyebrows furrowed, and the corner of his mouth pulled into the most extreme frown one could have while remaining asleep.

You didn’t want to wake him, but panic bubbled inside you – you felt constricted in your hospital bed, you ached to move your legs, and half of your face felt…numb.  Stiff.  Similar to your neck.

“Robert.” You rasped.

Immediately, his eyes flew open, he rose, only to fall back down to his knees, leaning over your bedside.

“You’re awake?  How do you feel?  Is there any pain?”

“Pain?  No, just stiffness…I can’t move Mac, why can’t I move?  Where am I?”

He hesitated, “There was….an incident.”

You tried to furrow your own eyebrows, but it was hard to move the smaller, more automatic muscles in your current state.

“An incident?”

“A firefight.  There was an explosion…you were caught in it.”

The panic rose in you, like waters during a flash flood, it teetered dangerously on the verge of spilling over.

“How…bad is it?”

He swallowed nervously, “A few burns, and a burst eardrum, which should heal fully.  A few bruises from when the impact threw you back.  Honestly, it’s a miracle you’re not…worse off.”

His voice wavered at the last part, and you noticed him fidgeting; with his holstered gun, taking off and putting his hat back on, rubbing his neck.

“There’s…something else, isn’t there?”

He paused, and you immediately knew what this was. The calm before the storm.

“Mac, tell me.”

Wordlessly, he got up, walking around your bed to the counter on the other side.  Your eyes trailed him until he disappeared behind you, and they followed him as he returned a few moments later to your bedside, in his hands, a mirror.

He angled it towards you, so that you could see without straining your neck.  The air was forced from your lungs.

“I-is that me?”

Your face was exactly the same – just as you remembered it, until you reached your mouth.  Your lower cheeks were rough with ruined skin, the scars creating unnatural ridges, and a strange shininess, at the new tissue.  The corner of your mouth seemed stretched slightly, marred downward into a strange, unnatural, eternal grimace.  You winced at your reflection.  Who was that?  Who was that stretching out your face?  

A cry escaped your throat, which felt as raw as you looked.

MacCready braced both hands on either side of your face; “Hey, ssh, c’mon now, it’s not so bad.”

“L-look at me,” you sobbed.

“Yeah, yeah, I am.”  His fingers swiped at the tears before they could reach the damaged tissue, his lips pressed against the unruined corner of your mouth.

“I  _can_  still look at you, because you’re still here with me.  Your face reminds me of that; how close I came to losing you - how I didn’t.”

Grief wracked your body, and you shook, sending ripples of pain throughout your battered body.

“You’re  _alive_ , that’s what this says about you – you’re a survivor.”

You closed your eyes, your heart throbbing painfully. MacCready clasped your hand between his own.  This wasn’t okay, but it might be eventually.

**Nick Valentine** : Nick had seen it one evening when you were shrugging off your coat; the patch of ruined skin on your shoulder.  Angry, red, puckered – like a snarl.  Noticing his gaze, you had moved quickly, trying to conceal it, but it was too late - Valentine was already on it.

“How’d you get that, kid?”

He kept his eyes on the task at hand, scanning the files of some case he had found on his desk – courtesy of Ellie of course.

“It was a while ago – before I took the…protective measures I take nowadays.  Took a deathclaw gauntlet to the shoulder.”

Your eyes were guarded, self-conscious.

“Christ, a deathclaw, you say?  Sounds like it must’ve hurt.”

“It  _did_ , and it was messy.  The doctors had been afraid about all the weird bacteria stewing around in the wound – at the time, their biggest concern was that I’d lose the arm.”

Nick let out a low whistle, “Seems like a scar is a pretty small price to pay, all things considered.”

“It serves as a reminder that I got to keep my arm after all.” You agreed.

“And to wear protective shoulder coverings,”

You laughed, “Yeah, that too.”

Unconsciously, Nick reached up to rub the side of his neck; where his own body memorialized the trials of his life, long ago.

_A reminder of what I get to keep, huh?_

**Longfellow** : The fire snapped and popped in front of you, and the two of you welcomed the warmth that radiated out towards you, soothing your stiff muscles after a long day of fighting and running around.  Longfellow pulled out a bottle of whiskey, unscrewing the cap before taking a deep swig, and offering the bottle to you.

You gingerly accepted his offer, reaching for the bottle, your shirt riding up on your torso slightly.

The discolored stripe caught his eye under the dancing light of the fire.

You tried not to notice.

You waited for the onslaught of questions that had come from the few other people who knew, upon discovering the angry, pink marks; How had you gotten them?  Did they hurt?  How long ago had it been?

The questions never came.  

When you risked a glance in ol’ Longfellow’s direction again, he was slumped against a fallen log, using it for what poor lumbar support he could pull from it. His eyes were shut.

“S’ been a long day,” he remarked.

“It’s been a long couple of months,” you took another sip from the bottle before passing it back to him.

“That, it has been – you seem to be holding up well though.”

You shrugged, “As well as anybody might, I suppose.”

“Nah, you’re a fighter.  Most wouldn’t have had the fortitude to scrap together the means to survive, but you – you adapted.  You fought for your life, and now you’re fightin’ for your son’s.”

Your cheeks warmed at the unveiled praise.

“You’re awfully talkative now, you dying or something?”

He snorted, “All I’m sayin’ is that you’re a fighter.” - _and it’s written all over you._

You were able to discern the implication as clearly as if he had said it aloud.  You scooted closer to him, marveling at the warmth of both the fire and his body.

“You old lug,” you muttered.

You continued to pass the whiskey bottle in silence.

**Piper** : “Tell me, what kind of secrets are you hiding under that patch, Blue?”

She nodded towards the eyepatch secured over your left eye.

“Oh you know, the typical; my tortured past, secret hurt, and the key to finding my secret pirate treasure.”

“And your wit – just a coping mechanism to deflect any attempts to really get to know you, right?  All apart of that whole, ‘secret hurt’ thing?”

You clucked your tongue, “Bingo.”

Her arms came to encircle your waist, and she rested her chin on your shoulder.

“I dig it – you know I always love a good mystery.”

“You love  _solving_  mysteries.” You corrected.

“And I haven’t solved you?”

“Well, you are asking about the patch.”

“Isn’t that why people wear stuff like that? It’s a good conversation starter for…the ladies?”

You gave her a rueful smile, “You tell me – is it working?”

She laughed, “No doubt, but…” her seriousness veiled in a cautious levity, that made you nervous only because of her own uncertainty regarding the matter.

“You never told me how you got it.”  She murmured.

“I thought you liked to be the one to solve mysteries.” You pointed out.

“I mean yeah, but there’s no trail to follow here. Leave me a breadcrumb, c’mon Blue.”

You smirked, “Sorry – gotta keep the mystery alive. Only way I know you’ll hang around.” You teased, trying to keep the mood light.  Your ‘secret hurt’ was much lighter when it stayed a secret.

“Yeah, yeah, okay fine.” Piper grumbled, pulling away to cross her arms, her mouth pouting.  It was adorable – her soft black curls framing her face, which was pinched up in dissatisfaction.  It vaguely reminded you of betty boop.  The notion was laughable.

“One of these days though, I’ll figure it out.”

You had no doubt she would.  Needles pricked from beneath the surface of your skin; sharp pangs of anxiety.

“If I were you, I’d focus on finding the buried treasure,” you joked wryly.

**Gage** : You flinched as Gage reached up to gently cup your cheek, sliding the pad of his thumb gently across the smooth scar tissue.

“Hey now,” he murmured, gentle.

This put you on edge – Gage was not, by nature, gentle. He only cuddled pre or post-sex, he only admitted his love outright under the safe cover of the night when he thought you were sleeping, and he was  _not_  the type to PDA.  And yet, here he was, scrutinizing you with attention and receptiveness you had never seen in him before, tracing the contours of your face with an almost artistic concentration.  His hand was warm, but this was still unfamiliar territory.  You fought the urge to run.

The heel of his hand anchored your chin to his grip, lightly, but firmly, combatting the way you had tried to jerk your head back, trying to dodge his gaze.

“There’s no point in hiding it – you had to come home and show me eventually.”

Your throat ached with the rawness of your hurt. A month prior, you had left Nuka World in search of your son; today you had returned, with a scar, instead of Shaun. You had briefly pondered the odds of you successfully disappearing after the incident, without a witness to your shame.  But being away from Gage for a month had damned near killed you – more so than the trauma that ravaged the right side of your face.   Anymore, and you’re sure you wouldn’t have made it.

You swallowed thickly, “It’s…bad.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to use anything stronger – because it was you, or at the very least a part of you now.  Whatever it was, so were you.

He made a disagreeing grunt, before shifting closer.

You tried to lean back, but another arm had encircled your waist, trapping you to him.

“You’re alive – that’s a good thing.”

You were frozen.

He pressed his nose against yours, nuzzling gently.

“Besides, scars are hot.  No one will challenge your authority now.”

He gave you a small smile, and you leaned in to him, letting him anchor you further.

**Preston** : “General…”

His voice trailed off, eyes trained on your back from his position in the doorway, watching you, watch the lull of life in Sanctuary through the window.

“I heard, but I wanted to come see for myself.”

You turned slightly at that, not trusting the hot tears that threatened to leak from your eyes, the tension of holding them back indenting the space between your eyebrows.  You bit your lip, half hoping you’d draw blood.  You didn’t.

If this had been before, you wouldn’t have trusted your voice to speak, but this was after, so you no longer had the option.

Preston stepped in further, your boyfriend now, rather than your lieutenant.  It had been the agreement you two had come to upon officially entering your relationship. Being the professional figureheads of the minutemen you two were, you had needed a point at which to separate work from play; outside these four walls, you were General and Lieutenant, inside, he was just Preston, and you, his lady love.

“Babe,” he murmured, now right behind you.  

You couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes, even when he knelt at your side, willing you to.  You felt something warm, and rough to the touch, encompass one of your hands.  One of his? He squeezed gently, “It’s not the end of the world.”

His gaze scanned your face, devoid of emotion.  It ran down the column of your neck, noticing the small white scars in the center.  X marks the spot.  This is where a supermutant had crushed your windpipe.  It had taken Curie days to repair the damage enough so that you could breathe on your own.  It had been a miracle that you had survived, she had said, as if it were trivial that you’d never be able to talk again.

You were so angry, so full of rage – all you had wanted to do was spit venom.  But it was as if the universe had put you on mute.

Sobs had wracked your body that first night; Preston had stayed up with you the whole time, rubbing your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, watching as you silently shook, cough, and sputtered. All you had wanted was to wail, caterwaul, whimper.  You had been robbed of that primitive luxury.

His hand reached up to run comfortingly through your hair, and you leaned into his touch, still angry, but grateful for his support.

“This is just a setback, not defeat.”  His brown eyes bore into yours.  

“You are not defeated – you hear that?  This is just one battle, not the whole war.”

You bit your lip, and nodded as the tears leaked down your face, letting yourself crash into him.

**Strong** : He grunts approvingly when he notices the angry, pink lines that stripe your arm.  He had many similar markings – all earned at the expense of his enemy’s life.  You strong too.

**X6-88** : He blinked at the crooked bend of your nose – a new, forever reminder of the fallibility of protective face gear.

You winced, as you pressed your fingers to it, fixated on the mirror, grimacing at your newly ruined reflection.

“Ma’am, can we go now?”

You were used to X6’s lack of empathy, and normally it wouldn’t have bothered you – it might have even amused you.  But today, when you were raw with pain; physical and emotional, you could only hiss in response.

“Have some compassion.”

“And who’s in need of compassion?”  

Had this come from anyone but him, it would’ve been massively condescending.  You had to remind yourself that this just was the way he was.

“Me.  My nose is…it’s fucked.  Forever.”

“It’s still fully functional ma’am, I fail to see the issue.”

You sent him a bleary look.

“It’s hideous.”

“It is,” he agreed, matter-of-factly, “but it in no way inhibits your ability to lead the Institute, or otherwise accomplish tasks, so all in all, a minor loss.”

You blinked at him, not better per say – you had loved your nose before, so this felt like just the cherry on top of a crap year for you.  The loss of your husband, son, and face.  Brilliant.  But, you couldn’t deny the seed of truth in what he was saying, emotional stunting be damned.

“Yeah…I suppose.”

He nodded, “I’m glad that we were able to put this issue to rest.  Shall we continue?”

The industrial nature of a calculated mind was not always a detriment, you found that day.  That – and that X6 was right about 99.9% of the time – not that you would ever tell him that.


End file.
